


The Embrace

by SirenNightshade



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Dementia, Extended Scene, F/M, Intro, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27831241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenNightshade/pseuds/SirenNightshade
Summary: An expanded scene for how my Malkavian PC, Larissa, was embraced and her thoughts on the trial following, up until the start of the tutorial section.I only just played the game for the first time a little while ago and I freaking loved it, especially my batshit crazy Malkavian girl. So here we have my overactive mind imagining how this whole trip through the vampire funhouse got started...
Relationships: Fledgling/Sire (Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	The Embrace

**Summary:** Just a nice expanded scene for my main character’s Embrace at the start of the game.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Strictly-speaking, Larissa wasn’t a prostitute. She’d dance on stages and tables, show off her superb flexibility, strip down to her specially-chosen costumes, and serve and consume alcohol, but _sex_ wasn’t a part of her job contract. It was all well and fine for others to be prostitutes, she didn’t particularly care – she just didn’t like the risk involved with it.

But when her repeat patron offered her a thick stack of bills for a night together – and after she’d checked to make sure the cash was real – she just couldn’t resist that payday. She was no fool, however; she didn’t go to _his_ place. No, they went to a neutral location for this.

And, _oh,_ he fucked good. He was clearly unstable and this made her nervous, but his fingers were gentle and he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t an unpleasant night by any means, and then she returned home with a bonus $450. Not bad, she thought, pleased.

It took her a full day to notice the heavy bruising on her neck, a hickey he’d given her that she didn’t even remember happening. It was fine, though; hickies weren’t an uncommon accessory in her line of work. And, if anything, her customers seemed to like it. She got a sweet bonus of tips for about a week while it healed, until it was so faded it was hardly noticeable anymore.

That’s when he came back. He liked her, this patron of hers. He looked like the kind of psycho you saw in the movies, a serial killer just under the surface, a dangerous air about him, but she’d learned it was just looks. He’d been coming back to her for months and never touched her without permission, never demanded another five minutes, never pushed her to drink.

Yet, tonight, he was different. He came in and she expected him to take his usual seat; instead, he came right up to her and leaned in, murmuring an invitation.

He had $700 in his pocket, he said, and it was all hers for one more night.

Caution warned her not to accept. “Why now?” she asked, hesitant.

“I’m leaving soon,” he told her. “I won’t be back. I want to spend my last night here with you.”

She took the rest of the night off.

They went back to his apartment. And it was…horrifying, in a way. All kinds of red flags rose at the sight of the place, from the bare mattress on its frame to the empty cabinets to an assortment of prescription pill bottles in easy sight. All of her instincts told her to get out of there.

Her patron cut off her rising excuse with a kiss so potent she forgot her fears.

He was a surprisingly resilient, insatiable kind of lover, she found. He’d shown her a glimpse of that once before, but now she was seeing so much more. He wasn’t just good at it, she learned; no, he had skill _and_ stamina. They went through several condoms and for a while played with a pair of handcuffs. One of her favorite parts was when those cuffs were on him, his hands cuffed to the bedframe as she rode him and he pivoted his hips so well she was seeing stars.

The fact that his skin was cold no matter how much they moved and touched sailed right past her awareness – or her denial.

She hadn’t bothered counting her orgasms after the third. Hours passed in a haze of pleasure and cries of ecstasy. But all good things must end, and after so much she simply couldn’t take any more.

He was nuzzling against her neck as she came down from another high, and he murmured, “I want to show you something…”

The next thing she felt was a stabbing, like shards of ice, tearing into her throat. A scream escaped her, but he clamped a hand over her mouth and pinned her down. Exhausted as she was, she could barely muster up any fight, her struggles pathetically weak. And all the while her mind desperately tried to _understand._

Repeatedly, the words _bite_ and _blood_ and _sucking_ circled around in her head, but she vehemently denied the image they painted. She clawed at her patron’s back, kicked, thrashed; none of it fazed him. His skin, so cold, seemed to warm under her touch for the first time. It was confusing and wrong and unbelievable, but every second she was growing weaker and he was growing stronger.

_No no no no no no no…._

Her motions slowed, then halted altogether. Her ears were ringing and her vision went spotty, then faded to nothing. The remains of her consciousness was aware of so very little, only of vague movements and moisture on her tongue. Then, almost like a gift, there was…nothing.

* * *

When Larissa woke once more, everything was different. At once she was bombarded with sounds far above how loud they _should_ be, with an assortment of scents wholly new to her, and with a very physical sense of mutual rightness and wrongness at the same time. She knew, at once, that she was cold, yet it didn’t feel _incorrect._

It was a struggle to get her eyes open, but when she managed it, everything came back to her in a rush. She sat up, gazed around, and almost winced at the raw _clarity_ with which she was greeted. Without looking, she somehow knew it was 3:45a.m., as if this knowledge were somehow vital.

And from somewhere over her shoulder, she heard a whisper: _They’re here._

What? Who?

She barely had a moment to recognize her patron sitting on a chair across from her before the door to her right burst open, almost flying off its hinges. An object flew, cylindrical and pointed, and impaled the other in the chest; before she could react, another had been plunged into her own breast.

They were both carried from the room. A man with long, waving red hair carried her (”Knock knock,” the voice whispered), while a large, broad, purple-skinned bipedal beast carried her patron. Along the way, she realized she was dressed. Her patron must have done that while she was dreaming in the void. She didn’t recognize the clothing on her, however; the little voice whispered, “Give me an A, give me a B!”

In her mind, she pictured a college she didn’t know, a woman with blonde pigtails dyed pink at the ends, wearing a cheerleader outfit.

They followed someone else, a man she recognized as wearing a black overcoat and ginger hair but the voice over her shoulder identified as “liar”. Confused and still incapacitated by the stake in her chest, she could only stare as they were brought to a stage and settled on their knees, hands bound.

Somehow the stake getting ripped from her body didn’t hurt; no, if anything, it felt like a relief. She was inclined to thank the redheaded male who’d pulled it free – until she recalled that he was the one who’d placed it there.

The man in the overcoat started a monologue, and she halfway listened as she gazed over at her patron. Surprisingly, his sunglasses remained in place. Were they sewn on? How silly of him!

Under her breath, she demanded, “Why did you bring us here? _MacBeth_ is over now.”

“Not yet,” he replied, his voice almost a hum. “There’s a few acts left. You’ll see.”

“I don’t want to see,” she hissed back. “Whose voice is this? Yours? You gave me your voice, but it’s not yours – not really. It’s mine, now. And his. _Why?”_ she bit out.

She couldn’t really see his eyes beneath his glasses, but she knew he was looking right at her as he replied, “I told you I was leaving. Now it’s your turn.”

“It’s time,” she confirmed, though the words confused her. Then, as the voice at her shoulder whispered a quiet command, her eyes turned to the audience. Her lips moved, though no sound emerged: _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

She didn’t understand what that meant…

“…death,” the ginger man said.

The voice haunting her agreed with a giggle, “Yes, yes!”

She looked up over her shoulder, at the man who’d pierced her heart. “Little Roman boy,” she murmured.

He gave her a startled look. “W-what?” he demanded.

“You thought your parents loved your sister more than you, so you killed them. _Et tu, Brute?_ But they didn’t. They loved you the same.” She paused, listening, then said, “They want you to know they forgive you.”

She didn’t understand a word she’d just said, but it was clear the little Roman boy did. He looked deeply unsettled, pale even for a vampire. Shaken. Shaken…like a good chocolate milk, only the milk is blood and the chocolate is blood and the shaking is a heartbeat.

Ribbons flashed by in her mind, each one bearing torn words and phrases. What was this? And why did she feel so certain about which ribbons belonged to which person? Her eyes sought out her patron, furiously trying to understand, but she knew at a glance he couldn’t help her now.

More words came to her as she looked around the crowd. Wizard. Helter-Skelter. Susan. Janus. Why? This wasn’t like her – she was pretty sure. She’d never had words like this in her head before, so why did she hear them now?

_Sire._

What? Unbidden and involuntary, her gaze shifted again to her patron. Recognition burned in her mind. All of her memories felt so faded and distant, now, but one remained clear: his lips on hers, at her neck, digging into her skin, sucking her insides out. He’d filled her again after, yes, but he’d failed to plug the hole left behind. Words filtered in on a wind through that hole, and she felt some of them sticking in her mouth.

“Forgive me,” the ginger man said. _  
_

_Liar,_ the voice argued.

A sword came down. Her sire’s head slipped free of his neck, so cleanly, as if it hadn’t really been attached at all. No blood, no splatter, just a gentle fall – his head a house of cards; a joker fell from the sever, floating down through the floor. The king of spades followed. And as his body burnt to cinders before her eyes, his skeleton collapsing in a heap, she knew she was next.

Her eyes went to the crowd again, caught a blue-eyed gaze. Her lips spoke soundlessly: _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._

His eyes were on her, too. When the ginger man began to speak, he rose, snapping, “This is bullshit!”

Two others jumped up, too, visibly restraining him.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine._ Again, her lips formed these words.

Others began standing, as if readying for a confrontation.

“All’s I’m sayin’ is that he better not do it,” the blue-eyed one stated firmly.

But, after a moment, the ginger man spoke up, “If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish…” 

She was safe. The numbers had shielded her. She knew this, but she also knew her life wasn’t the better for it. She had a sudden premonition that things were about to grow significantly more complicated. She saw herself traveling, over and over, back and forth and all over Los Angeles. She saw herself in so many different settings, and each one carried a danger she didn’t understand.

The lost ones. The loud ones. The frantic ones. Desperation, disease, mutilation, conflict, maggots, mirrors, war – and, saturating everything else, _blood._

So much blood. None of it real, none of it tangible, but she was already drowning in it. It was everywhere, in her nose and mouth, soaking her hair, filling her lungs – yet nowhere at the same time. Missing. Gone, as if it’d never been.

Her binds were cut, but by then she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be free. Maybe the purple one with the sword, the officer doll, would take her head, too. She wondered if hers was attached with a zipper or velcro.

She missed what the ginger man said, but soon everyone else filed out, even the officer doll. Only Larissa and the other remained.

_The Jester._

“Your sire – tragic, my apologies,” he was saying.

Was it tragic? He’d seemed perfectly fine with his death, as if he’d known it was coming. Maybe he had, she thought. No, how silly, of course he had! She was in his place, now, and somehow she recognized that she was meant to do so much more than he had.

In her mind’s eye, she saw a tower built of ivory, and she saw herself up at the top. But she didn’t stay there. She jumped from it and flew on the currents of wind, and from her vantage point, she saw the tower erupt in light.

It was beautiful…

The jester was walking now, so she followed, but his words meant so little to her. Fabric, predicament, behavior, transcend, trial, Santa Monica, Mercurio, clemency, fledgling… The words may as well have been a shawl draped over her, clouding her vision yet weightless.

_Smoke through broken mirrors._

“Do not come back until you do,” the jester finished his meaningless speech. “Good evening.”

He showed her the door in a literal sense. How generous, she thought. She passed him by, and as she went, she caught his gaze. Such bright blue eyes, she felt greedy just beholding them. But it wasn’t him or his eyes she was greedy for – it was power, a thirst unlike anything she’d felt before.

She left the play, only to be confronted by another. His smile was broad and mocking, even though he wasn’t smiling at all. Charming, in a twisted way. She _felt_ honesty in him, but it was a brutal kind of honesty. And guarded. So guarded, his honesty, hidden behind plates of armor.

She spoke without thought, without truly hearing him, and he was _shocked.  
_

“And you’re a goddamn Malkavian, too? You really are fucked!” he laughed.

Oh.

It was starting to make sense. _Malkavian._ There were groups in these ranks, then. Different lines, different blood. Her sire’s was “Malkavian”, and so hers was, too. His voice – now hers – never his, not really – it was a piece of that line of blood. She wondered if the smiling man followed the same line.

_We all do._

He tried to explain, and she tried to hear, but so many new words were spoken and her mind was misaligned and the voice would only be quiet for so long. Sometimes she stopped listening to the smiling one – Jack – and tried to hear the voice, even though she knew it wouldn’t speak just because she wanted to hear it.

This was her existence, now. Larissa, the fractured mirror, reflecting incomplete visions of herself in multiple places and multiple colors. Some pieces were so small, so insignificant, but still a vital piece of the whole. And with this revelation came another: no one would ever truly understand her again.

They could try. They would not succeed. Her words were water and smoke, some stone and some yarn, some chosen but so many more decided for her. The blood told her what words to use and she couldn’t stop them from being heard. The hole allowed so many thoughts in, thoughts that weren’t hers…

It was funny, though – the words she spoke, the confusing ones, the ones she so wanted others to comprehend yet they could never…these same words were her shield. If they couldn’t understand her, they would never see her as a threat.

Her sire had made her into a threat.

Well, she mused, it would be rude of her to disappoint him. He might have dropped his head, but that was no excuse for deviant behavior. First, though, she needed to learn. She was in a new world and the voice only posed questions, not answered them.

Jack would answer them. Jack, of the shielded honesty and mockery. The one who smiles at all the most inappropriate times. _Jack._

_Faith, trust, pixie dust_ – one of these things was a lie. Or two. Or three. It was all about perspective, really. The point was more that she knew Jack wanted something of her. His forced openness had a purpose, and what he told her now was designed to get her started on something – something important. Something he wanted her to do.

The ivory tower came to mind again. So bright, with a heartbeat within. The ivory tower was dead, and she was going to bring it to life. Yes. The tower would dance and sing and celebrate by the time she was done.

She couldn’t wait to get started.


End file.
